Lightning's Hand
by mechachic
Summary: Dean is finally cured from being a demon and back home in the bunker. Yet, he can't help but notice that something is not quite right with Sam. Sam won't even look at him anymore, and Dean wants to know why. Warnings for permanent injury/partially blind Sam.


**Lightning's Hand**

Dean doesn't notice at first that something's not quite right with Sam. The thing is Sam's not making eye contact, hasn't been since Dean was cured from his demon state. But Dean's not making eye contact either so for three weeks it never really resonates with him that something is different about Sam.

Eventually Dean does notice. He feels Sam's stares on his back, feels his little brother angsting, senses the relief that Dean's been cured and the terror that their Winchester luck is waiting around the corner like a pit in the ground. It's a look Sam has worn too often over the years and it never ceases to rip Dean's heart out. No one should be able to make eyes like that, but dammit if Sam doesn't have a gift for it. But that's the problem. These days, Dean only feels Sam's stares; every time he turns around Sam diverts his gaze, and subtlety is not Sammy's strong suit.

Dean doesn't say anything about it. After all, he gets it. Really, he does. In fact, he'd be more surprised if Sam did look him in the eyes. Sure, he'd been a demon. But he'd been a freaking dick and he'd tried to kill Sam. He'd called Sam pathetic and whiny. He'd chosen the King of Hell over his own brother and then he'd shoved it in Sammy's face. He'd blamed Sam for their mother's death, and boy did that have to sting. So yeah, Sam has damn good reason for being pissed this time, and that kid can hold a pretty serious grudge for much lesser offenses.

Dean dances around the issue for a few days. A reassuring smile that somehow turns into a grimace. An aborted apology that leaves his lips in an unintelligible grumble. His shadow in the doorway to Sam's room and then the echo of his footsteps down the hall. Avoidance is easier. If Sam wants to talk he will. Sam is the talker, after all. Feelings and chick-flicky crap, that's Sammy all the way. Until that line is crossed and Sam loses his temper, that is. Then Sam goes all sullen and broody and distant.

The really strange thing, though, is that Sam doesn't seem sullen and broody. A little distant maybe, but in a way that feels more shy than angry. When Dean smiles, Sam always smiles back. When Dean chokes all over what he means to be an apology, Sam rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder. When Dean can't quite bring himself to enter Sam's room, Sam starts lurking in Dean's doorway too.

So why the hell won't Sam look at him anymore?

Finally Sammy gets his sling off along with a clean bill of health, and that's a freaking relief because Dean's been letting him hunt with one good arm and that hasn't exactly been sitting too well with him. But Sam was managing well enough with the bad arm before Dean was cured, so it had seemed silly to make a big issue of it. Sam still hasn't told him exactly what happened. Something about a demon and Cas and a dislocated shoulder is all he's been able to get – quite possibly all he's ever going to get. But like Sam said when he'd first tracked him to that bar in North Dakota, it doesn't matter. And it doesn't, does it? Because Sam is better now and everything is okay, except Sam won't look at him anymore.

Now that Sam has his sling off he's more determined than ever to get in hunting form. Maybe he just needs the distraction, but suddenly Sam is training like he's never trained before. Dean figures Sam just wants to get his arm back in shape, but for whatever reason Sam is super secretive about the whole thing. He trains at night after Dean goes to sleep or behind locked doors, but locked doors can't keep a Winchester out and Sam should know that by now.

Dean picks the lock one day when Sam is in the middle of target practice. He makes absolutely certain to keep his distance because if Sam knew he was there he'd go shy and disappear into his room again like he's been doing for weeks. Dean wants to be supportive, wants to help Sam train if that's what Sam really wants to do, and he hates this feeling of exclusion.

Dean notices immediately that Sam is completely off his game. His shots go wide nearly 100% of the time, and he never really hits his mark the way he wants to. Dean shifts his head one way and then the other, watching curiously as his little brother misses shot after shot by an expanding margin as the kid becomes ever more frustrated. Dean's first thought is that Sam is distracted. Sam is missing because his head isn't in the game. Except that's not right. Dean has never seen Sam more focused than he is now, staring down that target with keen determination like the whole world will crash and burn if he doesn't hit it dead center. Sam misses.

Dean is at a loss now because if Sam is this focused he should be kicking that target's ass. Sam is a damn good shot. Exceptional even. Dean hasn't seen Sam this off since the trials and there's something extremely worrying in that. It takes Dean a while to realize that Sam has stopped shooting. He stands there instead, hands raised, gun pointed nice and even and ever too slightly to the left and Dean just knows this one isn't going to make it either. But Sam never pulls the trigger this time. He just stares. Stares and stares and stares until Dean isn't quite sure what the hell Sam is doing. And then it clicks. Sam is trying to adjust his aim, determine that perfect position where bullet is destined to intersect bullseye, but he doesn't know how to find it. He should know, but he doesn't. Good thing Dean does.

Dean is at his brother's side in an instant, reaching his hands to Sam's and pulling Sam's too-long arms into position with a gentleness only a big brother possesses.

"Here," he says. "Your form's good, but you're aiming a bit wide. Do you have one eye closed? You know you gotta keep'em both open, Sammy."

"Get off me, Dean," Sam snaps, and Dean can tell he startled him. Sam pushes Dean's offered hands away a little too harshly and abruptly steps back into his own space because personal space is an issue with Sam these days.

Sam meets his gaze for the first time in who the hell knows how long, and Dean finally sees how huge of a private moment he's intruded on. Sammy's eyes are pooled with tears and his face is stained red with their angry tracks. He blinks rapidly, shoves a sleeved palm across a puffy and bloodshot eye, and then pushes past Dean without sparing another glance. Dean feels like he's missed something, and missed something he has, but in Winchester fashion the guilt is too great and he can't bring himself to go after Sam. He chalks it up to the Mark of Cain instead because why would Sam want such a tainted thing touching him? He wants to toss his crap in a duffle and haul ass out of there and let Sam just live in peace for once. But he doesn't. He's nothing without Sam, and there is nothing more terrible than being nothing. So he stays in the bunker and drinks like a sponge in a puddle because maybe now his brother hates him.

Sam finds him a few hours later. He looks guilty and apologetic, and Dean can't help but notice that the kid's gone back to watching his shoelaces as if the damned things figured out how to tie themselves.

"I'm sorry," he says, and Dean nods. "I didn't mean to yell at you. Look, Dean, what you saw down there…man, I was down there for hours practicing."

"Yeah," Dean mumbles. He knows.

"I just got my arm out of the sling and it was too much too soon, you know. Do you have any idea how hard it is to shoot when your arm is aching like that?"

"Sounds like a bitch," Dean answers.

"Yeah, man, it kinda is. I guess it's got me a little short," Sam explains, and he's all dimples and sincerity and puppy dogs until Dean can't help but give him a small smile in return.

"Don't worry about it, Sammy. Believe me, I get it. And hey, I'm the one who wanted to start hunting again, so if you feel pressured-"

"It's really not you, Dean," Sam is quick to assure him, and Dean wants nothing more than to believe it.

"Yeah, sure," he says quickly, brushing aside the potential chick-flick moment. "So, do you want pizza for dinner? I was thinking about picking one up later."

Sam does, and he offers to head into town to pick it up himself, pointing out that Dean is drunk off his ass. Dean can't argue there so he lets Sam go and berates himself for all the questions he didn't ask. Still, he's not sure he wants the answers all that badly. He thinks about Sam and his aching shoulder and how it makes sense that if his brother is really still in pain his shot could be affected. But Sam is good with pain, suffered more than he should have the right to, and when Dean thinks about Sam in the shooting range all he can see is Sam staring at the target like he's lost. Staring and staring and staring. So Dean doesn't believe Sam because hey, Sam lies, and Dean is finally starting to get the hang of knowing just when. His beer leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

It seems like a good time to go hunting. Sam says he's fine and Dean needs to kill something for reasons that have nothing to do with the Mark of Cain. He gets wind of a case near Lincoln, Nebraska that looks like it could be their sort of thing. The paper reports a series of mysterious deaths and disappearances, and "mysterious" is usually a pretty tell-tale sign as long as the paper is legit. And hell, Dean is content to take it. Nebraska isn't all that far, considering. At least he isn't driving across the country with a brother who would just as soon pretend he's invisible. And Sam certainly does a good job of making the drive awkward. He looks out the window and doesn't say much, and Dean can tell he's thinking about something. He doesn't ask what because just maybe he doesn't really want to know. But Sam seems nervous and twitchy and that makes him nervous and twitchy too. He needs a distraction. He pops a cassette into the tape player, cranks the volume, thrums his thumbs against the steering wheel, and waits for Sam to complain like he always does. Sam keeps looking out the window.

The epicenter of the murders seems to be an abandoned farm house and that's where they go. The house is old and at some point the family that once lived there started their own burial plot. Figuring out which grave needs torching isn't an easy task, and who's to say there's just one ghost anyway. Fortunately, the graves are clearly marked and the family kept good records. Joseph Blythe, age 17, allegedly drowned by his father not 50 years ago. The father was never convicted, however, and Dean figures that's a good enough reason for a pissed off spirit.

Sam finds the grave first. The ground is hard and Dean knows it's going to be a bitch to dig up. Sam knows it too if the tight lines in his forehead and pursed lips are anything to go by. Dean cracks a smile and a joke, and he does manage a chuckle out of his younger brother. Then they're at it and despite the cold air they're already breaking a sweat.

Eventually they're deep enough that Dean knows he's destined to reach the casket soon. And really, that's awesome news because while Sam isn't exactly whining about his arm he is making little, agonized huffing sounds with each lift of the shovel that are uber grating at the moment. Sam is in the way anyway because, frankly, Sam is huge and the hole they're in is substantially less huge. Dean tells him to stand watch instead. Finally, not five minutes later, Dean strikes gold. Or Joseph's coffin, but he'll take it. He can't help the cocky smirk that spreads across his features like the Cheshire cat. He turns to his brother to make one lame joke or another that Sam's probably heard a thousand times before when he notices it.

Joseph Blythe is their vengeful spirit all right, and he is ticked! Dean spots him coming up fast on Sammy's right side. He's flickering like a broken television set in all his rage and if he gets his hands on Sam it sure isn't going to be pretty. Sam is trained for this sort of thing, though, and the situation should be under control. Unfortunately, Sam is just standing there, staring straight ahead, oblivious to the oncoming threat. This thing is clearly in Sammy's line of sight! He should have spotted the movement in his peripheral vision way before this, and now the thing is practically on top of the kid and Sam still doesn't see it!

"Sammy!" Dean shouts. He figures Sam has to be daydreaming, which is dumb as hell and not something Sam has done in the middle of a hunt before, and if he can just get his attention…

But Sam's head snaps in his direction instead, like the pissed off spirit that's about to tackle him isn't even there, and now it's too late for Dean to react. The spirit thrusts itself on the unsuspecting hunter with such force that even Dean can feel it.

Sam goes down hard, head thudding noisily against the solid ground, and Dean just knows that this bitch just broke his little brother and it's going to pay for that. He wants to be at Sam's side right then and there, but he knows that the best way to help his brother is to finish this damn job. His body shaking with adrenaline, he uses the crowbar to rip the lid off the coffin like he's tearing a page from a notebook. He dumps the entire contents of salt on the corpse and lights it up just as fast. The spirit shrieks violently as it goes up in flames and disintegrates around Sam in a constellation of ghostly ash. Dean notices none of that. He is already there, snatching Sam into his arms and shaking him awake. Maybe that's not such a good idea with a nasty head injury, but Dean is not exactly thinking at the moment.

"Damn it, Sammy!" he shouts desperately. "C'mon, kiddo!"

Eventually Sam groans and Dean squeezes him even harder. The younger hunter's eyes flutter open, but remain in a half lidded daze. Dean goes for the flashlight immediately. He pulls Sam close and rests his little brother's head on his thigh.

"C'mon, Sam. I need you to keep your eyes open. I need to check for concussion."

Sam mumbles incoherently, but his eyes are open and Dean takes that as invitation enough. He shines the flashlight into Sam's eyes just like he has done a million times before, and just like it has done a million times before the pupil in Sam's left eye dilates. But Sammy's right pupil, Sammy's right eye, doesn't react to the light at all.

 _Oh God, Sammy, What's wrong with you?_ Dean's mind is screaming. Something is seriously not right with Sam's eye. Just how hard did Sam hit his head? Suddenly, Sam's left eye focuses on him and goes wide – the right eye just stares glassy and unseeing – and then Sam reacts. He pushes Dean away from him and pushes himself onto unsteady feet. Dean scrambles up quickly, reaching out to steady his wobbly little brother, but Sam shoves his hands away hard.

"Sam-"

"I'm fine," Sam almost snaps.

"Sam-"

"I said I'm fine!"

"You're not fine!" Dean snaps back. "I think we need the hospital. Your eye…"

"My eye is fine! Look, let's just go home." He's angry now, and Dean isn't sure why. He can't quite comprehend the situation, and before he can respond Sam is already packing their gear into the Impala's trunk. Dean could have sworn…but he must be wrong. Sam is fine. He said so himself. Suddenly he's not quite sure what he saw because Sam is sure as hell not worried. They drive home in silence.

Sam still doesn't look at Dean. He doesn't talk to Dean. For four days, he shuts himself up in his room and pretends Dean doesn't exist. Dean isn't sure what to do with this, doesn't know if he should barge in there and demand answers or just give him some space. Sam is probably just being a bitch about something again, Dean thinks. Sulking and hiding out like after the Gadreel debacle. Except, Dean can't think of any reason for Sam to be this pissed at him. Then he starts thinking about the hunt. About Sam's eye. And suddenly, he's not so sure he imagined anything after all.

"Sammy!" he shouts, pounding on Sam's door with his fist. "Sammy!"

No response. Not a sound.

 _Screw this!_ he thinks before shoving the door open and just barging into the bedroom. What he sees there nearly stops his heart. Sam is curled up on his bed, dripping in sweat, groaning. His eyes are watery and Dean can tell even from across the room that his face is swollen and red around his not-quite-right eye.

"Hey, there, Sammy," Dean soothes as soon as he reaches his baby brother. He strokes the hair out of Sam's eye and takes stock of the damage. Sam's forehead is burning hot against his palm, and Dean is definitely going into big brother mode. "Sammy, talk to me," he pleads.

"Dean?" Sam mumbles, the sound almost inaudible.

"Hey there, buddy."

"Dean, I think…I think I need the hospital."

You don't have to tell Dean twice. He has Sam up and out the door so fast he should have his own set of wings. But once they arrive at the hospital, Sam goes all distant again. Weak as he is, the damn kid throws some ridiculous temper tantrum about privacy and bans Dean from the exam room, which royally rubs Dean the wrong way because since when does Sam not want him by his side? _When he's hiding something_ , his gut tells him, but he dismisses the thought because the important thing here is that Sam is sick. Sick and alone and stupid.

Dean sits in the waiting room. His leg is bouncing up and down and he wrings his hands together over his shaky knee. Twenty minutes later Sam's doctor comes out and Dean is up and all over him instantly.

"What's wrong with him? How serious is this?" he demands. "I know he didn't want me in there, but I don't know if he's coherent enough to tell you everything. The other day…I noticed…his eye…"

"Yes, yes, his eye," the doctor interrupts in a flat, placating tone that makes Dean want to punch the man in the face. "Just an infection."

"Just an infection?" Dean spits back venomously at the man's casual tone. _Just an infection!_ But the doctor is still calm.

"A nasty one, for sure, but your brother is going to be just fine, Mr. Winchester."

Dean finally lets himself relax, lets the doctor's words wash over him.

"Okay. Okay, that's good," he sighs. "So, how did he get the infection?"

"It would seem from dirt and bacteria that had gotten onto the prosthesis, and since the prosthesis was never removed and cleaned as it should have been-"

"Wait a second. Prosthesis?" Dean interrupts. "What, like a plastic arm?" Dean has no idea what this doctor is saying to him. Prosthesis and Sam? He has to be telling him about the wrong patient. He just has to be.

"Yes," the doctor gives him a strange look and replies slowly, "that is a type of prosthesis. But clearly in this case I am speaking of your brother's prosthetic eye."

"His what?" Dean hasn't heard him correctly. No way in hell. Sam has his eyes. Both of them. Right in his head where they belong. This has to be a joke. Who the hell does this doctor think he is?

"The prosthetic eye," the doctor repeats like Dean is stupid. "Now, we did remove it as the socket was infected and quite inflamed. We have treated the area and we are prescribing antibiotics and some medicine to control the pain. You'll want to keep the area clean and keep an eye on the swelling. If you don't notice improvement over the next couple of days, call us immediately. It will be painful for a while and until that swelling does go down he won't want to wear the prosthesis. We have instructed and reminded Samuel of the importance of keeping the prosthetic eye and the socket clean in the future."

Dean stares. Dumbstruck. He's trying and failing miserably to take it all in and he's not sure he'll ever be able to get his lungs to start working again. The doctor looks suddenly uncomfortable under Dean's blank gaze, and if Dean cared enough he would notice the minute it registers on the doctor's face that Dean hadn't known. The doctor excuses himself awkwardly, mumbling his apologies and directions to Sam's room.

Dean stays where he is awhile longer. His little brother, his Sammy, has a glass eye. Sam had lost his damn eye while Dean was running around as a demon, singing karaoke and sleeping with waitresses! Sam lost his eye, and Dean hadn't been there. And now it was infected – probably from rolling around in that graveyard. Dean feels sick to his stomach. How could he not have seen it? He's been so messed up dealing with the mark and his guilt at being a freaking demon that he hasn't seen the signs. But now, they all click right into place. Sam never looking him in the eye, Sam's terrible aim, Sam completely not seeing that spirit. Dean just can't deal with it. He brought his blind baby brother on a hunt for God's sake!

When he finally makes his way into the exam room, Sam is sitting there waiting for him. His shoulders are hunched down making him appear smaller than he really is. His right eye, or rather where is eye should be, is covered by a stark white bandage. His remaining eye is diverted down to his lap where his hand is absently twisting an object around in his palm – the prosthetic eye, Dean realizes sickly. Sam doesn't look up at him when he comes in, but all the same he can read his brother's expression clear as day in that one downcast eye. He is guilty as sin.

Dean stands there a long time, not sure of what to say. He shifts his weight from foot to foot a couple times, watching Sam who's still watching his fake eye in the palm of his hand. Eventually Dean clears his throat.

"So…you only have one eye," Dean finally says. His voice sounds awkward and heavy in the previously silent room.

"I only have one eye," Sam says back brokenly. Then he looks up, one pleading hazel eye meeting his gaze at last, desperate for his older brother's acceptance. Dean wants nothing more than to tell him it's all going to be all right. That nothing has changed. But Sam could have died.

He turns around and walks out of the room, and Sam follows quietly behind him.

The drive home is uncomfortable to say the least. Sam is still holding his damn eye, and Dean can't bring himself to even look anymore. He parks the car, but makes no move to get out. Instead he stays exactly where he is, hands fisted around the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. Sam, too, is motionless.

Suddenly, Dean is furious. At himself, at fate, at life, at frickin' Sam! Sam lied to him! Sam has a huge blind spot. A major disability as far as hunting is concerned. You don't not tell a guy you're hunting with that you can't see a damn thing out of your right side. His grip around the steering wheel tightens until his knuckles turn white.

"How could you not tell me this?" Dean demands. Sam doesn't say a word. "You could have gotten yourself killed, Sam. You could have gotten us both killed!"

"I don't want to deal with this right now, Dean. I feel sick as hell. What do you want me to say? I'm sorry? What did you want me to do?" Sam finally shouts back, face going red.

"I don't know, Sam. Tell the guy you're hunting with that you're half blind."

Sam abruptly throws the car door open and gets out. Dean follows suit, and they find themselves facing off over the top of the Impala. Sam's bitch face is no worse for wear despite the missing eye.

"It was a salt and burn, Dean. I thought it would be easy!"

"Easy? When the hell is it ever easy, Sam?" Dean fumes.

"I just…couldn't tell you, okay?"

"And why the hell not?" Dean asks. He needs to know. What has happened to them? They used to be able to tell each other everything.

"Because I just got you back," Sam answers, his voice cracking at the admission. "I just got you back, Dean. And I worked so hard for that. All of the things I did, that I had to do. Terrible things, Dean, but it was worth it to get you back. So how could I tell you that I let you down again? That I screwed up so badly that…that I'm useless to you now. I finally found you, and I can't lose you again. I don't want to get left behind."

Suddenly Dean isn't so angry anymore. Damn Sam, making a puppy dog eye at him and it's every bit as effective with one eye as it was with two. Dean comes around to Sam's side of the Impala and sighs.

"You're not getting left behind, Sammy. I could never do that to you," he assures his brother. "Don't you know that by now? But things are going to change for us. We can't just ignore this. We're gonna have to learn to adjust. I saw how off your shooting was the other day, and that's not gonna fly. I can help you, if you stop being so damn stubborn. And when you are ready to hunt again, I'm gonna need to watch out for your right side and that's gonna change how we do things a bit."

"I can live with that," Sam says soberly.

"You're not useless to me, Sam. I can't believe you haven't figured out how much I need you by now. The way you've been acting these last couple months, I thought you hated me or something," Dean confides.

"I...Dean, no," Sam says horrified. "I don't blame you for what happened. I couldn't. I mean, hell, I've been soulless. I tried to kill Bobby. If anyone understands…"

"No more secrets, Sammy."

"No more secrets," Sam agrees.

"You sure now? There is nothing else I need to know? I mean, dude, it's just your eye, right? I'm not gonna walk into your room one day and find your prosthetic leg in the corner or something?"

Sam chuckles at that. "No, I swear. That's it, man."

It's a few days before Sam feels comfortable enough to let Dean take the bandages off and check the swelling. Sam, of course, would rather take care of it all on his own, but Dean's constant mother-henning annoys him enough to negate any insecurity he's feeling. Sam is undeniably tense and rigid as the bandage comes off, waiting for Dean to react. Dean knows what his little brother is looking for. A sharp intake of breath, a gasp, a horrified look to tell him that his big brother thinks he's a disgusting freak now. Dean doesn't give it to him. He doesn't even hesitate before gently touching his brother's face and going over the area, examining and cleaning both.

Truth be told, it is a little uncomfortable to see Sam this way. Not because he thinks his brother is a freak, but because he hates that Sam was hurt so badly. He's spent the last few days looking at Sam with that big, white bandage, thinking about what wasn't underneath it. Thinking about how he would react when he finally saw it, and probably just as worried as Sam was. When it all comes down to it, it isn't what he expected. The infection is the worst of it and not really the missing eye. Sam still has his eye lid, and so that remains closed over the empty socket so it isn't like some gaping hole in his brother's head. Dean does check the socket and that is a bit weird, but he doesn't linger there for fear of making Sam even more uncomfortable. All in all, Sammy seems to be doing a lot better and Dean is quick to tell him so.

"Looks good," he says with a confirming nod.

"Really?" Sam asks uncertainly.

"Yeah, man. You should have seen it a few days ago when it was all red and puffy. I thought you were dying. It's really a lot better."

"You don't think it's gross?" Sam asks.

"Why the hell would I think it's gross?" Dean asks casually. "You know what kind of crap we've seen over the years, and you think this is going to phase me?"

"Huh, yeah, I guess so," Sam responds.

"It still hurting?"

"Yeah, a bit."

"Pain meds helping?"

"Yeah, Dean," Sam groans, sensing the mother-henning coming on again in full force.

"Hey, just checking," Dean says. "So, you want me to put the bandage back on?"

"Maybe just the pad. I still have my patch from before I got the prosthetic and I think it's healed enough for me to wear it," Sam tells him.

"Patch as in eyepatch? Like a pirate?" Dean smirks as he tapes the pad back over his brother's eyelid.

"I'm not a pirate, Dean."

"Really? Well, let's see this thing."

Sam glares at him, but pulls the eyepatch out of the drawer next to his bed and puts it on all the same. And Dean does laugh at him, but it's the best thing either of them has heard in a long time so they just go with it.

"Okay, okay. Let's hear it," Sam says with a smile.

"Seriously, dude. You're telling me you're not a pirate? You got the long hair, got the eyepatch…We just need to get a parrot and, man, you are set." Dean laughs a moment longer, but then sobers quickly. It's now or never. "So, um, how did it happen?"

"Dean," Sam groans, "I told you I don't like talking about it."

"Yeah, and if it was me you would never let it go. You would hound me to death," he tells his brother.

"What do you want to know, Dean?" Sam begins unhappily. "I couldn't make it two weeks without you? I just wanted to find you, and I thought I had a lead from a demon. I knew Cas wasn't up for it, but I was so desperate that I didn't care. It turned out the demon lied and we walked right into an old house with vengeful spirits. Two of them. It was kind of a Romeo and Juliet star-crossed lover sort of thing. They got the drop on us, twisted my arm around and dislocated it."

"So, that's what happened to your arm." Dean says knowingly.

"Yeah, that's what happened," Sam confirms. "I got loose, but the other one had Cas and he was in no shape to fight it off. I couldn't do much with my arm the way it was, so I had to burn the objects they were attached to – these matching lockets with strands of their hair in them. They were pissed, though. Just before they fizzed out, the window exploded. I tried to turn away, but…"

"But the glass got in your right eye," Dean finishes for him.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Cas tried to heal me best he could, but he didn't have the mojo. He got me to the hospital right away, but they, uh, they had to remove my eye. The damage was that bad."

"I should have been there," Dean says quietly.

"You would have if you could," Sam tells him, and there is no question in his voice. It still stings, but Dean knows he needs to move forward for Sam's sake.

Another week passes before Sam starts wearing the prosthetic eye again. It's a week filled with pirate jokes and both brother's learning to adapt to Sam's vision loss. Dean always approaches Sam from his left now because he notices the way Sam startles when he can't see him coming. It doesn't take long to become second nature to them, as if this were simply the way it had always been.

The biggest relief for Dean, though, is that Sam looks at him again. No more turning away, no more hiding. And sure, sometimes Dean can tell that there is something off with Sam's eye. That it's marginally different and doesn't always act the way you would expect an eye to act. It isn't perfect, but it's Sam's and that is good enough for Dean.

So when Sam finally comes to Dean and asks for help with his target training, he is all too happy to be there for his little brother. After all, Sam is an exceptional shot. Always has been, always will be.

Dean makes sure of it.


End file.
